Page 5 of Offside and Off-Limits (Love in Maple Falls #2)

CADE

I let the hot water run down my back, washing away the pain in my side following my collision with Weston Smith out on the ice in our first ever team practice.

He’s from the minors, the Tennessee Wolves to be precise, and the guy sure has something to prove, slamming me unnecessarily hard against the plexiglass during one of our plays.

At least I know he’ll be effective in defense when it comes to an actual game.

I rub my side. Yup, real effective.

It didn’t help that Coach Hauser had already put us through a bunch of bruising drills beforehand. Coach is tough, tougher than my last coach, who I was pretty sure had some kind of grudge against hockey players. But he got results.

This guy? I bet he’ll get them, too.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s got a group of players all wanting to make their mark on the newest team in the League. And I count myself in that equation.

One thing I can say is it’s great to have my former Blades team captain leading us. Jamie Hayes always sets the tone for the team: work hard and have each other’s backs out on the ice, no matter what. I know how he ticks, what he expects from his men, and I’m here for it, one hundred percent.

I picture the other guys in the team as I wash the sweat from my hair.

Carson Crane, nicknamed “Bama” because he originates from the state, has talent sparking off of him out on the ice. I’ve come up against him a bunch of times on the Blades, and the guy has killer instincts on the ice. He’ll be a good teammate, and much better on my team than against me.

Canadian Asher Tremblay has an ever-present smile, Asher’s easy to get along with, and he’s taken me up on my open invitation to the guys to lift weights in my fully equipped garage gym later this week.

He seems like the kind of guy I could click with, and it’d be good to make a friend in this new town.

Defenseman Lucian Lowe is quiet and a little intense, and I know it’ll take a while to get to know him.

But he seems like a good guy, and he’s an excellent player, one I’m more than happy to have on the team.

He’s different than his counterpart, Weston Smith, who, when he’s not smashing me against the boards, loves to crack a joke, and with a bunch of jocks, there’s always an opportunity for humor.

Then there’s that French guy, Clément Rivière, nicknamed Frenchie for obvious reasons.

Of course, I know him by reputation from his time on the Les Lions de Paris team where he made his mark, and he sure comes across as your stereotypical French guy, all suave and dramatic with his accented English.

My mind turns to the perky blonde with the pretty blue eyes in her jeans and white T-shirt I met over the comics in the bookstore on Main Street.

She had on a long gray cardigan that reached down to her knees, skimming her womanly figure.

And what a figure. Slim but nowhere near skinny, with rounded hips and curves where they’re meant to be.

Hey, I’m a guy. I noticed.

She had a practically makeup-free face but for something glossy on her lips, her blonde shoulder-length hair in soft waves.

In a world full of puck bunnies, I'm not used to meeting women who aren't fully made-up, without a hair out of place, their assets on full display.

Clara Johnson was…refreshing. Yeah, refreshing is the word. Refreshing and totally hot.

And it was as clear as day that she had next to zero interest in me. In fact, the way she grabbed a hold of her son when she first arrived told me she thought I was some kind of weird predator with an ulterior motive.

I’ll admit, while I was checking her out, my eyes did flick briefly to her left hand, and you know what? No ring. That’s right, I “ma’amed” a single mom who’s probably only about my age. Nah, scrub that. I “ma’amed” a hot single mom who’s probably only about my age.

Man, I bet she loved that.

The truth is I've been addicted to comic books ever since I was Benny's age, which I pick at about eight or nine.

Back then, comics were my escape. I would take my weekly pocket money Mom gave me to the comic store in our small town and carefully select which one I got to take home.

Mom would always roll her eyes in a good-natured way, knowing how much I loved that world of superheroes and villains, and the good guys always winning in the end.

So different from the world I lived in.

The bad guy definitely won there.

And I still hate him for it.

I squirt some shampoo into the palm of my hand and lather up as my jaw twitches as I think of my father, the man who put the word absent in absent father figure .

The man who would only turn up once every couple years with some sob story, treat my mom like a piece of dirt beneath his shoe, and then leave again.

I never understood why she let him back in, time and time again.

But let him in she did, whenever he would turn up on our stoop, believing his lame excuse as to why he hadn’t been around, why he had no money to give her to support his own kids, giving her some cock and bull story about whatever it was that he knew would get him back into our lives.

At first, I was excited to see him, just the way Mom was.

He was my dad, and he’d come back to us.

I’d try to spend as much time with him as I could, inviting him to my hockey games, telling him all about my friends and my comic collection, eager to have father-son time.

And he’d come to a couple games, making my heart soar, then he’d get involved with something—or someone—else and drift away, until one day he wouldn’t be home when I got back from school.

Then, as I grew older and his visits grew farther and farther apart, I began to resent him. Who did he think he was, coming into our lives whenever he wanted, and then disappearing again?

So, I made the decision long ago that I wasn’t going to treat people like he did. When—if—I ever settled down, it would be forever. I wouldn’t jerk either my wife or my kids around like he had done.

There’s no freaking way I’ll ever be like him.

But a big part of me was afraid I would turn into him.

So, I steered clear of commitment, kept my relationships short and shallow.

And it worked for a while. I didn’t have a wife and kids I was messing around.

I could be whatever I wanted to be, and the League afforded me the ability to do as I pleased, no strings attached.

In the end, that lifestyle wasn’t the answer.

Sure, the women I dated knew the score from the get-go. I was there for a good time, not a long time, and they got that. But do that for long enough and your soul grows weary.

Now I’ve become a man who wants to fall in love for the very first time.

And I guess that could start with not flirting with women like Clara Johnson.

No matter how much I want to.

“Yo, Lennox. You done yet?” Asher calls out.

“What’s it to you?”

“Coach wants us in the locker room to meet some dude about marketing, so get your butt out here.”

“Be there in two.” I push the conundrum of Clara Johnson and the new me from my mind as I rinse off the shampoo and then switch the water off. Immediately, I miss the therapeutic heat.

Man, I’m not as young as I once was.

And yeah, even thinking that makes me feel old.

I might not quite be Jamie’s age, but at thirty-three I don’t bounce back from the brutality of the sport like I once did. And hockey has got to be the most brutal sport of all, except maybe rugby. Those guys are insane.

Although I’m not in that headspace yet, sometime soon I know I’m going to have to think about what comes after hockey.

Which is all the more reason to get on with the new me.

I grab a towel and dry myself off before I wrap it around my waist, slicking my hair back. I pad across the cold tile floor out into the locker room. I'm expecting to see a rabble of guys in various stages of undress, talking and laughing as they get ready to head home after practice.

What I see is every single one of my teammates fully dressed in their regular clothes, sitting in front of their lockers, looking at a woman speaking. I swivel around to see who they’re listening to only to capture the gaze of the hot mom I ma’amed yesterday.

Clara Johnson. The woman I’ve just told myself I’m not going to flirt with.

Her eyes slide quickly down to my abs and back up again, and within seconds her cheeks begin to flush, and she pulls her gaze from me, focusing back on my teammates.

I glance down at my bare, glistening chest, my towel wrapped low around my waist—not exactly the kind of attire that doesn’t attract attention. But it wasn’t like I planned this. Asher told me some guy wanted to talk with us, not Clara. And how was I to know everyone else would be dressed already?

I make my way to my locker and take my seat.

“Dude, did you know you're just in a towel?” Weston stage whispers to my left.

“Yeah, thanks, I got that,” I say back with a roll of my eyes.

“So, I'm looking for volunteers,” Clara says, and although I've got no idea what she wants volunteers for, I raise my hand along with Weston and Asher.

Despite my new leaf being turned here in Maple Falls, I’d like to spend some more time with this hot, gorgeous woman who doesn’t seem to like me—but who blushes at the sight of my bare chest.

Yeah, I kind of liked that.

Clara’s eyes glide over me once more as she lifts her lips into a smile. “Awesome. Thanks, guys. Stay behind and we can chat about the campaign, okay?”

“You got it,” Asher responds.

“Campaign?” I say under my breath to Weston.

“Social media. Weren't you listening? No, wait, you were still in the shower getting close and personal with a bar of soap,” he replies with a smirk.

“Whatever,” I say, returning my attention to Clara, a much prettier prospect than my teammate.